It’s one of those things our elders taught us—you shouldn’t put others down to try to boost yourself up.
What better example of that is there than the drug dealer?
| Here’s a man passed out, face-planted onto his own shoe, five feet from a mass of dried feces, at 10:30 a.m. on a Friday, chilling out under an overpass. I’d spoken with him the previous night, offering him a ride to reinstate his state medical insurance, and starting his journey out of the tunnel. We were to meet at a nearby convenience store at 10:00, where he’d jump in the car and hit the local Dept of Economic Services office. This is where and how I found him—passed out next to a woman with a pipe wedged under her pot-leaf-decorated Croc and a piece of scorched foil next to her with a little blue, half-burnt pill stuck to it. |
| Had he been sober and ready to go at 10, he’d be one step closer to getting out of the tunnel. Instead, he remained in this “lump of human waste” status until 2 p.m. when I came back and found him in the same position. I nudged him back into reality, and he decided he had to go fly his sign to make some money, rather than take the first step toward getting out. I didn’t know he was a user until this day, and I left him with the business card—”When you’re ready to get out, call me.”I couldn’t help but think of a young man whom I’d heard was venturing into recreational pharmaceutical sales. Cocky, indifferent, and clueless, he thought he was a badass for having a few more shekels in his pocket than his peers. I sent him the video version of the above photo—one I’d never publish for public viewing. “These are the end results of the goods and services you’re providing to your fellow man.” Every Limp Noodle statue, every scarred and toothless face, every lump of human feces we all see strewn hopelessly in the worst areas of the city—they all started with marijuana. That’s the gateway drug that made them think getting high was a fairly harmless way of not dealing with life’s hardships. These may be among the worst of them, but the things we don’t see on the streets—the twelve-hour video game benders, the abusive drunks, the crack babies, the really bad decisions made while under the influence—those are things that tear a society down from the inside. It falls on the parents, right? Where are this young man’s parents? Oh yeah… his father’s in prison—recreational pharmaceutical sales. What a waste. I can’t give up on this lump yet, though. If he gets that state insurance card, he’ll be able to get into detox. I just can’t spend too much time on him—there are too many people out there who are clean, desperate, and willing to do what it takes to get out. I need to find them before the dealers do. |